The people around them did not scream and scatter wildly as they might in the game. Instead, they calmly retreated, some even pausing to watch the commotion with detached curiosity. Many were so accustomed to such violence that they r
In reality, this brutal spectacle was the raw, unvarnished norm of the American West. In this era of burgeoning capital and a nascent America, chaos was the sole, reigning theme. Gunshots echoed daily, and gang fights alongside brazen opium sales on the streets were common sights. For ordinary folk, venturing outdoors frequently meant confronting potential death. The game's perspective, centered on Arthur, the West's most formidable outlaw, might soften this reality. But from an average person's viewpoint, traversing any significant distance was often a gamble with grim consequences.
The man Arthur held, his gaze fixed on his dead companion, felt the agony in his twisted fingers. All his arrogance evaporated. He looked at Arthur, pleading, "Oh, I'm sorry, sir. Please let me go! Please, for the sake of me working for Mr. Bronte, let me go!"
"Oh! Alright, sir…" Arthur paused, a flicker of dark amusement in his eyes. "Ah, for our people, I actually can't do that!" With a ruthless precision, Arthur plunged his knife through the man's neck, then cast his lifeless body to the ground. Only then did his gaze turn to Dutch. "Oh, Dutch, this shouldn't count as causing trouble, right?"
Dutch chuckled, a low rumble of satisfaction. "Yes, Arthur, it doesn't count as causing trouble. Though I suspect we might have a little bit of trouble coming. But it's alright. We can only hope Mr. Bronte is sensible enough not to bother us." Dutch was utterly unconcerned as he led the group deeper into the city. His reluctance to provoke Bronte was a matter of strategic convenience, not genuine fear. The Van der Linde Gang—a collective of fools, madmen, and desperate souls—had never known fear. At worst, they would simply restart, burning their past to the ground. If Mr. Bronte truly lacked sense, Dutch wouldn't hesitate to make him quietly vanish on a rainy night, even if it disrupted their meticulous plans.
Arthur, Hosea, Charles, and the four women fell into step behind Dutch. Hosea positioned himself to Dutch's left-rear, Arthur to his right-rear, and the group moved grandly, their presence an undeniable force, through the long, teeming street.
Hosea, a slight worry gnawing at him, looked at the unconcerned Dutch. "Oh, Dutch, who is Bronte?"
Dutch mused for a moment, glancing at the curious expressions of the others, then clarified. "Bronte? Let me put it this way, Hosea: Bronte is a member of the Italian Mafia, the representative of a Mafia family here in Saint Denis. He controls a significant portion of Saint Denis's illicit businesses, Hosea. For example, we rob and kill, wandering the West. Mr. Bronte, however, thrives on the trade of prostitutes, opium, and the gambling dens. The two men we just dispatched were likely Bronte's enforcers, tasked with finding new recruits for his brothels. Clearly, they chose the wrong targets."
Listening to Dutch's explanation, Hosea visibly relaxed. He now valued Dutch's plan above all else, especially as the gang's life was clearly flourishing. He wanted no issues to derail Dutch's grand vision. He had feared Bronte was some powerful figure, an official, or even a senator, which had stirred his anxieties. But now, knowing Bronte was little more than a sophisticated outlaw, he felt little concern. Arthur, John, and Charles were entirely unbothered. They cared nothing for Bronte's status; if Dutch commanded them to confront him, they would charge headlong into the fray.
"Actually, Hosea, if this current plan of ours fails, my other strategy is to transform our gang into an underground Mafia syndicate, much like Bronte's. Times are advancing, Hosea, and civilization is relentlessly developing. The life of a desperado will eventually come to a brutal end. Brutality, slaughter, and sin can no longer openly define the West. All sins and ugliness will be buried beneath the body of civilization, forced to hide within its very framework. Even though sin will never diminish, it has reached a point where it must be concealed. For with civilization, rules will inevitably emerge."
Dutch's words sparked a rare moment of introspection among the group. Those who had come along this time—Hosea, Arthur, John, and even Charles—all possessed a distinct quality: a capacity for deep thought and reflection. In stark contrast, Bill, Javier, Mac, and Davey, never truly engaged in self-reflection. This distinction, in the original story, was profoundly insightful.
It took the group a grueling half-hour to reach the coffee shop where they had arranged to meet Ms. Dorothea. As Dutch led them in, Ms. Dorothea and three other ladies were already seated, awaiting their arrival.
"Oh, Mr. Arthur! Dear Mr. Arthur, you've finally arrived!" Ms. Dorothea greeted him with a radiant smile. "Oh, and Mr. John and Mr. Hosea, hello, it's a pleasure to meet you." Ms. Dorothea greeted Arthur and Hosea, her gaze then sweeping over Charles and the young women trailing behind Dutch.
Dutch smiled, gently shaking Ms. Dorothea's hand. "Oh, Ms. Dorothea, I apologize for keeping you waiting. My factory, you see, has been under construction recently, but thankfully, it's now completed, and I can fulfill my promise to you." He then gestured to the women behind him. "These girls are here to communicate with our female workers. Oh, and this is Miss O'Shea, my… wife. Miss O'Shea is also a fervent supporter of the women's rights movement, and I believe you'll find much to discuss." He then looked to the three women accompanying Dorothea. "Oh, these three ladies behind you are…"
Dutch's gentlemanly demeanor and innate grace made the eyes of the three ladies behind Ms. Dorothea sparkle with interest. Though Dutch was forty-one, his bearing and raw charisma were ever-present. Even if he wasn't classically handsome, he commanded attention in any crowd. Such men were highly favored by these ladies, for they instinctively sensed his capability.
Ms. Dorothea smiled, extending her hand, then gestured to the three ladies, introducing them to Dutch. "Oh, Mr. Arthur, this is Miss Camille, Camille Morgan."
Miss Camille exuded an aura of nobility and elegance. She appeared to be the youngest among the four women, possessing typical sharp features: deep-set eyes, a high nose bridge, and a complexion free of freckles, either through meticulous skincare or natural clarity. She seemed to be in her twenties, remarkably well-preserved, though her wedding ring subtly hinted at an age likely over thirty. At this moment, her beautiful face observed Dutch with keen interest. Despite the man's refined attire and graceful demeanor, both he and his companions carried a raw, palpable aura of violence—a visceral undertone that even their polished appearance and composed behavior could not entirely conceal. This kind of aura was utterly alien to her, something she had never encountered in her privileged life. Those in high society were either supposedly gentlemen, or gentlemen who subtly revealed a hint of ruthless vulgarity, or else they were fat, disgusting, ugly, and mean-spirited, yet self-proclaimed gentlemen, appearing utterly out of place.